


Christmas Excess

by bookjunkiecat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First time living together, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Misunderstandings, Shared Home, christmas ficlet, really dumb names for penis, vulgar trees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 11:02:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12910563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: For their very first Christmas in their new home, Mycroft asks only for peace and order. Greg, however, has just brought home something that is going to upset things quite a bit more than either of them first realize.





	Christmas Excess

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheRedheadinQuestion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRedheadinQuestion/gifts).



> For @theredheadinquestion and her entirely too lusty tree. It's your fault Greg is presenting Mycroft this giant woody. Tumblr is like a vortex of filth, fluff and randomness. Glad I met you :)

          With a sense of extreme gratitude, Mycroft closed the front door on the outside world and stood quietly for a moment, absorbing the peace of his home. At last, with a soft sigh, he removed his outer things and hung them on the brass hooks below the antique mirror he’d brought from his old house. Sitting on the bench to remove his shoes, he reflected with pleasure that the bench seemed tailor made for the space. Really, it was as if he’d hardly moved, at times. Considering how anxious change could make him, it was remarkably soothing.

          “My, that you?” Came his boyfriend’s questioning voice from deeper in the flat.

          Although that was one new change of which he very much approved. Mycroft stood and moved across the hallway toward the lounge. Their new flat was two stories, ten spacious rooms, and yet they spent the majority of their time at home in the small lounge at the back of the house. They’d been dating for four years, and over time it had grown more and more impractical and—at times—exhausting, to straggle back and forth from one place to another at all hours of the day and night. One night over dinner in Greg’s tiny flat, they’d tentatively discussed moving in together, and once it became clear it was something they both wanted, they’d dove in enthusiastically in the search for a new, shared home.

          “Yes, my dear, I’m home.” He unbuttoned his suit jacket, hoping they could order in and then have an early night of it. Life of late had been quite exhausting.

          Unfortunately, their search for a home had been hampered by a number of issues, not the least, it turned out, the fact that they couldn’t agree on a neighborhood, a budget, or a style. Their first estate agent had quit after seven months. Three and a half months in, their new agent had developed a noticeable facial tic, and stopped gushing about the features of the homes he was showing them. When it became clear that nowhere in London was a property which could fulfill all of their needs, they’d become dispirited. Finally, they ended up back at one of the first dozen homes they’d viewed.

          Greg objected to the price. Mycroft sneered at the neighborhood. The back garden looked like a tip and they both hated the entry way. But somehow, walking through the rooms, they had seen the possibility of building a life there. Their life, together.

          “I’m in the lounge!” He sounded entirely too cheerful for a man who had spent the last two days following Sherlock in and out of abandoned houses looking for the man responsible for a string of daring cyber-crimes. Although…Mycroft had noticed that coming home seemed to instantly cheer Greg up these days. If for no other reason than he seemed to have boundless energy with which to shove around furniture, trying to get his old (entirely inappropriate) sofas to fit in the lounge, or trying to find places to hang his superfluous “art.”

          Now they were the owners of a ten-room, two storey flat in a four-storey building, sandwiched in between neighbors of varying backgrounds and lifestyles. Even given the space, they had been finding it difficult to blend their furnishing and belongings, and despite the proximity of Christmas, they had opted sensibly not to put up any decorations. Mycroft, coming home each day to find Greg standing in the spare room, staring perplexed at all of his second-hand and flat-pack furniture which was crammed in higgledy-piggledy, had more than once had to remind him gently that it made no sense to clutter the house up a mere two weeks to Christmas.

          Besides, he’d had quite enough of the sight of Greg’s ornaments. His partner was delightful in every way, but his taste left something to be desired. Mycroft, on those occasions which had demanded it, had relied on a professional firm to decorate. Elegant and restrained décor of ivory and gold, with a towering artificial tree which was perfectly in proportion and happily shed no needles on the floor, and did not require constant watering, lest it burn down the house. The sedate nature of those decorations reflected his own classic tastes. Greg, on the other hand…well.

          “Have you anything in mind for dinner?” Mycroft asked, entering the room, eyes on his phone, where he’d pulled up the menu for Mad Desi, “I was thinking Indian—” He glanced up and tripped to a halt. “What on earth…?”

          Grinning ear to ear, Greg stood in his socked feet next to the fireplace, and directly next to the stubbiest, scrubbiest, most unsightly and unprepossessing tree that Mycroft had ever seen. “Welcome home, My!” He spread his arms as if to say _ta-da!_

          “I…my dear, what _is_ that?”

          “A tree!” Greg picked his way across the Aubusson rug—a Holmes family heirloom—between all of the boxes which most assuredly had _not_ been there at breakfast time. Reaching Mycroft, he hugged him, his kisses serving to distract nicely. Mycroft couldn’t avoid looking at the tree when his eyes opened, however. Yes indeed. It was a tree. A horrid, patchy, shedding monstrosity. It was so…enthusiastic, somehow, despite its lack of appeal.

          “I see that.” Mycroft paused, smiled nicely, “And why did you bring it home with you?”

          “I know we said no decorating this year, My, but I was on my way home from the shops and I saw it.” Greg beamed fondly at the tree. “It was standing off in the corner, looking lonely and proud and something about it just…well. I had to have it.”

          He would have pointed out that trees do not have feelings, and that even if they did, they no longer had them once they were severed from their roots and stuck in a bucket. Four years, however, had taught him more diplomacy than twenty years at Whitehall. “Ah. Yes.”

          “I’ve given him a nice drink and put him where I thought he would look best,” Greg said with entirely too much seriousness, “but I wanted to wait to decorate until you got home.”

          Oh goody. “Mm, yes.” Mycroft regarded the tree with silent despair. Perhaps if they trimmed the bushy side it would even it out. But then again, it would be altogether too bare then. “We’ve some shears somewhere, haven’t we?” He needed to buy time until he could find a nice way to convince Greg that if they must have a tree, then it needed new decorations. From what he could see spilling out of the boxes, everything was multi-colored, garish and cheap. Bending over to judge where it would be best to cut, he was arrested at the sight of something.

          Straightening, he turned to Greg, “Does it strike you that this branch here looks terribly like a member?”

          “A member of what?”

          Mycroft closed his eyes, seeking patience, “A male member, Gregory.”

          Greg snorted, “A penis?” He took a look, “Wow! So it does. Big fella too, ain’t it?”

          “Definitely need the shears,” Mycroft sighed, “This is already vulgur enough without—”

          “Vulgar?” Greg sounded astonished. “It’s a _tree_ , Mycroft.” He laughed, although he didn’t sound terribly amused, “Only you would want a tree with a pedigree.”

          “Don’t be ridiculous, Gregory!” Mycroft snapped, annoyed to be dealing with this after an interminable day. Could he not simply come home for _one_ day and not have to diplomatically derail Greg’s—very well intentioned but entirely unsuitable—rearrangement of their perfectly appointed house? “I simply want something that doesn’t look out of place. And I refuse to have a tree that looks as if it’s prepared to star in a pornographic film!”

          “My tree’s gonna look out of place, is it?” Greg said, voice too tight, something darker lurking underneath. Mycroft looked at his boyfriend properly and saw the beginnings of anger in those normally affable brown eyes. His heart sank. Oh dear. He’d mucked it up again. “Doesn’t quite suit your perfect home, eh?” He gestured around him, “Look around you, Mycroft! Everything in here is yours.” He shoved a hand through his hair, sighed deeply, “Nothing about this place even shows I live here.”

          “Gregory…” his voice was weak as his heart shuddered unhappily in his chest. He didn’t know how to have a personal life. Happiness wasn’t something Mycroft was accustomed to. Losing Greg was a constant fear, and in moving in together, he’d somehow assumed that all of that fear would leave him. Now, however, he appeared to be screwing things up royally. “Don’t be ridiculous, of course you live here—”

          “Point out even one thing that’s mine in this room, Mycroft,” Greg challenged, shoving his feet into his loafers. His movements were jerky, and a distance seemed to open up between them, a terrifying emotional chasm far more vast than the mere length of the room. “Can’t, can you? That’s because it’s all _your_ stuff.”

          “If this is about the sofas—” Mycroft reached out for him, but Greg ducked his touch. It sent a shaft of fear through him, and he pressed a hand to his chest, cold ebbing at his frame as he watched Greg walk out of the room.

          “It’s about more than the sofas,” Greg threw back over his shoulder. “It’s about me belonging here.” He laughed bitterly, “I don’t belong with you, so…guess it’s no surprise, eh?”

          Mycroft wanted to throw up. His stomach actually heaved as the cold fear lurking inside him reared up, whispering insidiously. “G—” But he couldn’t get his name out; his throat had closed up and he could only watch as his love crossed the hall, jerking his coat down from the peg.

          “I’m going out for a drink. I’ll throw out the tree and all my boxes when I get back.”

          The slam of the door jarred Mycroft from his frozen state, and he ran to the front door, jerked it open, crossed the small vestibule and cursed the lock. By the time he had the keys in hand it was too late. Greg was gone.

 

******

                                                                                       

          It didn’t take him more than the walk to the nearest pub—too trendy, too loud, too expensive—for Greg to cool off. His anger, as it so often did, dissipated with a little distance, and he was left with regret, worry and shame. Mycroft didn’t deserve to have him blow up like that, and over a silly little tree.

          Only…it wasn’t _just_ the tree. Maybe he’d overreacted, and maybe there was some truth to his tantrum, but he’d handled it poorly. Mycroft was always so in control, at all times, that when anything went wrong which he couldn’t handle (which was pretty much anything emotional), he either came across as a giant prick, or he shut down.

          Greg knew he would never be the level of smart his Mycroft was, but he knew things, saw things, that even a genius sometimes missed. He saw Mycroft’s sleepless nights, and his incessant worry. He knew Mycroft had trust issues and insecurities, enough for four people. Despite all that he’d fallen in love with the man and what was more…Mycroft made him happy. Truly happy, giddy even. And what was even more unbelievable…he made Mycroft just as happy.

          But as much as he loved him, Greg still got sore over things like the distribution of their stuff. He freely admitted that Mycroft’s stuff was nicer than his. It was old and classy and beautiful. His stuff was none of that. But it was _his_. And it had meaning. Sure, not all of it. But…damn it; he wanted to feel like it was his home too! Maybe it would make it feel less like a wonderful dream which he was about to wake up from if he felt like he was a permanent part of the flat.

          Depressed and sulky, just over a week before Christmas, was no mood to be spending time alone in a pub. But he needed time to cool off, so Greg ordered a whiskey and sipped it, needing the burn to focus on. He kept his head down, hoping no one would approach him for conversation. Right now he just wanted to be alone long enough to cool off, and lick at his tender wounds. Once he had his equilibrium back, he’d return to the flat, apologize, and clear the lounge out.

          A tree had been a stupid idea, he reminded himself, staring at his bar mat. He’d seen Mycroft’s place their first Christmas after they began dating; all perfection and balance, restraint and elegance. There were no hand-made ornaments from childhood, no silly mementoes from years past. The lights were white and static and the tree didn’t shed. The rooms didn’t smell of pine, or baking, or wet wool. _Christ, I’m out of place in his life_ , he thought settling deeper into the morass of his own depression. Sally had tried to warn him, told him that a fling was one thing, but a relationship between him and someone as posh and clever and arrogant as Mycroft Holmes was like trying to mate a dog and a cat.

          He hadn’t listened though.

          _And look what you would have missed out on if you had_ , Greg thought, straightening as he recalled the last four years. They hadn’t been all roses and candlelight, sure. But they’d been good…really, really good. He’d been happy in a way that he hadn’t experienced in maybe ever. And Mycroft…God, he’d been so happy he’d tried to push Greg away with one hand, and hold him fast with the other. _The idiot_ , Greg thought fondly.

          Because he was. He _was_ a genius _and_ an idiot. Arrogant but also vulnerable. Clever and posh, yeah, but also tender and shy and funny. The complexity of Mycroft Holmes’ mind and heart were endless, and Greg had looked forward to a lifetime of opening him up and exploring every strange, wonderful, impossible facet of the man he loved.

          So why was he sitting here in a pub, eight days before Christmas, miserable and alone when the love of his life was at home, probably miserable and afraid and wondering if he’d lost Greg forever? Throwing a tip on the mat, Greg hurried out of the pub, pushing past a crowd of loud, eager office workers looking to unwind. He’d nearly let his doubts and fears get the best of him over what, a Christmas tree?

          “We’re both idiots,” Greg decided, grinning, as he made his way along the icy street toward home. So what if Mycroft hated his tree? Or his decorations? They could throw them all out and get new ones, together. It was a new start, for both of them, and they’d have to change their way of thinking. _It’s not about him or me_ , Greg realized, _it’s about us_.

          He paused at the corner, waiting on the traffic to change, when his nose caught a hint of spices and his stomach rumbled. Recalling Mycroft’s words, Greg changed direction; he had one stop to make and then he was going back home to make sure his own pride didn’t get in the way of the best thing that had ever happened to him.

 

******

 

          When the sound of the inner door opening reached him, Mycroft let out the fear he’d been bottling inside and stood, smoothing his hands down his sticky trousers. “Greg? Can you please join me in the lounge?”

          He heard Greg’s keys jingle as he tossed them on the mahogany Sheraton sideboard and the sound was so welcome that Mycroft didn’t even wince as he usually did. He just waited, hoping Greg wasn’t still too angry with him. His boyfriend had been gone nearly an hour and a half, and while he knew intellectually that Greg was faithful…in his mind he’d feared that someone so beautiful, emotionally vulnerable and pissed might be ready game.

          The aroma of the excellent and mouthwatering cuisine of Mad Desi preceded Greg into the room, and despite his heartache and worry, Mycroft’s stomach grumbled pleasantly. Unless his nose betrayed him, he could detect the flavours of Poha mingled among the other delicious smells. Greg always ordered too much, and Mycroft always protested he couldn’t eat any more, until Greg would coax him to have “just one more bite” from his fork. He hoped the food was a good sign, a sign that Greg wasn’t done with him. Surely he wouldn’t feed Mycroft if he intended on ending things?

          “I got you chiwda dahi as well,” Greg said softly, smiling. Mycroft flushed to be caught thinking of food in the aftermath of their fight. But his heart warmed at the tenderness of Greg’s smile. “I’m sorry, My, I was an arsehole and I realized it almost as soon as I left, only—”

          He broke off, staring past Mycroft, who turned so he could see both Greg and the tree. His anxiety returned. Perhaps he should have left well enough alone.

          “My…did you put those lights on the tree?”

          He folded his trembling fingers together at his waist, licked his lips, “I did. I wanted to wait to put the ornaments on until you were here with me.” He made himself meet Greg’s eyes, “You were right, I’ve insisted on having my own way from the first, and that’s not going to lead to a happy life together.” He sucked in a shaking breath, feeling his damned eyes betray him as they grew damp once more, and his voice quavered, “And I very much want a happy life with you.”

          Setting down the food, Greg strode across the rug and wrapped him in his arms. Grateful for their support, Mycroft hid his face in Greg’s neck, hugging him tightly. “It’s all I want too,” Greg whispered, turning his head to kiss Mycroft’s cheek. “I should have said something sooner, not sprung a tree on you and then ambushed you with my resentment.”

          “But I should have seen,” Mycroft said urgently, pulling back so he could let Greg see his earnestness, “I’m meant to be observant, for God’s sake, and yet I completely missed your misery—”

          “Slow down, sunshine,” Greg cautioned, capturing Mycroft’s face in his hands and pressing a gentle kiss on his nose, “I’m not miserable, and you’re not mean to be omniscient, remember? We’ve talked about this.”

          He nodded dutifully, recalling the conversation in perfect detail, but not able to relinquish a lifetime of responsibility, guilt and fear so easily. “Still…I handled it poorly.”

          Greg laughed; his breath—smelling pleasantly, but not strongly, of whiskey—puffed against Mycroft’s face. “So did I, if it comes to that. I’d say we both behaved like asses.”

          “Mmm,” Mycroft said non-committally. He had certainly played the larger part, but it was typical of Greg’s generous nature to try to downplay the blame.

          “So….” Greg let his hands idle down Mycroft’s face to his neck, gave his shoulders a squeeze, “What’s this then?” He nodded over Mycroft’s shoulder to the tree, smiling. “Peace offering?”

          Mycroft cleared his husky throat, “It is. I thought we could decorate it together, with your ornaments—” He overrode Greg’s half-formed objection, “—this year, and then perhaps…we could shop for new ones. Together.” He licked his lips again, worry ghosting through him as he tread on delicate ground, “That way we could build our own memories in our new home.”

          To his joy and relief, Greg’s face lit up, and he hugged Mycroft close, kissing him hungrily, and at length. “That sounds perfect, gorgeous.”

          Shaky with happiness, Mycroft hugged him tightly, breathing in the scent of Greg and letting his fears ease back into their dark shadows. Perhaps they would never go away entirely, he realized, but that didn’t mean that over the years, his Gregory wouldn’t be able to shine enough light to make the shadows seem less immense.

          “Lights look good,” Greg commented, hugging him one last time and then keeping an arm around Mycroft’s waist as he swung them both to face the tree. “Did you already take the trimmings out to the rubbish?”

          “I…I didn’t trim it,” Mycroft admitted, peeking at him.

          Greg’s brows rose, “Oh? You left the, what did you call it? The male member intact?”

          “Not only intact,” Mycroft said, gesturing, “But I chose to highlight this most unusual feature.” He had spent an inordinate amount of time arranging the lights, and his hands were scratched, his clothes tacky with sap, and he was certain his hair was mussed.

          Greg took a closer look and started to laugh. The offending branch was now boldly outlined in multi-colored lights, thrusting its way merrily at waist level, the tip of the branch curving up toward the ceiling. “God, that’s really noticeable now! No hiding that tree’s penis!”

          Mycroft winced, “Gregory, please.”

          “Penis too crude, love? Shall we go back to calling it the male member?” Greg snickered, “How about the holly jolly Johnson? No? A festive frankfurter?” He cackled filthily, “A piney prick? A deciduous dong?”

          Mycroft closed his eyes and acknowledged both the relief and the irritation at the return of his boyfriend’s usual high spirits and slightly rude sense of humour. “I don’t think we need to call it anything, my dear.”

          “But it’s a feature of interest!” Greg objected, grinning, “We have to have a name for it when we point it out to guests!”

          Oh dear Lord. He wanted to show it to _guests_. “Really, Greg, it needn’t have a name of any sort. It is, after all, merely a branch.” 

          “Oh no, My, _those_ are branches. _That_ is…that is…”

          “A branchlet?” Mycroft suggested in desperation.

          Taking pity on him, Greg relented and hugged him one-armed, kissing his cheek, “A branchlet it is. Now, let’s have our dinner and then we can trim the tree.” He moved toward their food, “We’ll put on one of your less sturm und drang opera CDs, sip some brandy, and make a little party of it.”

          That sounded…acceptable.

          “And then I want to lay you down in front of the fire and explore your branchlet,” Greg leered, wagging his eyebrows and using his free hand to grope Mycroft’s bottom.

          That sounded even more acceptable. Perhaps Christmas traditions weren’t so bad after all.

         

 

 


End file.
